THE URBAN VOYEUR II

It’s her red scarf that first traps my eye. She’s half naked, legs exposed under a black skirt that drops mid-thigh; chest clad in a black buckled vest. She’s standing on the sidewalk area around the fountain, the famous fountain here with Pan dancing, water spouting from goat heads, the whole area cobblestoned as a little urban park.

I sit at a small bistro table nearby in an improvised state of aloofness, sipping cappuccino with a book open in front of me on the small metal table.

She walks over, a cigarette propped behind her ear and a duffel hanging from her shoulders. I can smell her approach. A dizzying elixir smothers me, a licorice-like essence perspiring from her glazed skin.

I watch her fingers emerge from the tight fist they’re clenched in, revealing a half eaten Toblerone bar. She holds it out and looks longingly at it for a brief second – making the decision between instant or delayed gratification. Her hand floats like a feather over the buttons of the vest before she regretfully puts it away, out of sight in the pocket again.

The ends of her black hair are damp, coming together into daggered points that follow her jaw line. I wonder where she’s come from, if we’ve ever passed at any other point in our lives. Maybe I’ve seen her at the university cafeteria in my building, swaying those hips between tables while balancing a tray full of overcooked vegetables or wilted lettuce. Perhaps I’ve seen her at the dance studio opening or the gallery down the street. Maybe she dutifully handed my books to me at the library a block away last week.

I would’ve remembered those eyes though. Those dark eyes with the intoxicating glare that floats out from underneath a web of lashes. Lashes that wait for you to come closer. Closer still until you lose yourself completely. Lose yourself to those eyes, to whatever they desire. That is the poison that comes with eyes like that.

But she’s subdued and benign now, in the weak sunlight that floods down. Here, the gentle breeze is somewhat comforting. It makes one forget the ailments they arrived here with. It’s a world of its own here, where anybody could be somebody else, hovering only in a vacuum of suspended time and space, where nobody knows anybody’s yesterday or tomorrow. This is what preserves its shallow artificiality.

In one urgent movement she takes the Toblerone from her pocket again.

She licks her lips as she claims her prize, seducing the triangular bar with the touch of her fingers. The slight furrow of her eyebrows pokes through her bangs, her impatience makes my own elevate ten fold, peeling back the gold foil with fingers that make me quiver. An impulse to pry my lips open and sputter out some kind of nonsense is outweighed by my self induced paralysis. She detects some sort of movement I am ignorant to, a finger curling into a tight ball inside my pocket, my weight shifting slightly in the chair. I dodge her glance with a sophisticated, haughty look down at the book and a small sip from my steaming mug. I still feel her eyes looking me up and down, taunting me to intersect her gaze.

She pushes her long bangs out of her eyes, interrogating my fixation with a curious look in my direction. I look away embarrassed. I can’t bring myself to cower into the darkness, nor can I coax the muscles behind my eyes to return her gaze. Maybe she’ll walk away now, lose interest in the woman in Levi jeans and black Godsmack t-shirt with the blank stare. She probably likes cool guys who carry guitars and wear steel-toed boots. Or, maybe she prefers women with tongue studs who know what to do more than any guy ever would.

She’s almost done with her Toblerone, placing the last triangle on her tongue in a delicate maneuver, sucking the stains of chocolate from her fingertips with puckered red lips. She licks the remaining chocolate from the corners of her mouth, sliding her tongue along the creases in one fluid rehearsed movement.

Time floats between us in a pulsated digital display.

She slowly saunters toward the knot of humanity that is placidly waiting for the Southside bus to arrive, walking to the end of the street, and then dangling the tip of her knee high boot along the edge of the curb. She crosses her arms in front of her and looks up when she hears the familiar rushing of an approaching bus. Looking over her shoulder, she seems to wink, but I can’t tell. More and more bodies begin to swarm away from the cobblestoned center of this little mall, towards the street side.

Alarmed that I may be losing her, I suddenly stand, jarring the table and spilling hot cappuccino, and a thought of following her flames briefly through my mind as I see her carefully step up into the bus.

A few birds fly overhead, targeting my shoe as a landing spot for their droppings. I can’t pretend to care about that now. Perhaps when I return home, it might infuriate me. Perhaps I will remember none of this tomorrow. Perhaps a white splotch on my shoe will be all I’ll have as proof this was no dream. But perhaps, the rain will wash it away by the time I climb the five floors up to my loft and the memory of this all will only exist within the frameworks of my imagination.

Perhaps.

• Favorite
• Report Concern
• Share This
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

Add your comment

You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.

Tags:

fuckit